A Place In The Sun
by evelia
Summary: Perhaps our heart's desires are meant to remain merely that; a dream. What happens when what we have always longed for is finally laid out before us, and will one recognize the difference, between the true and the illusive? Harry gains an unexpected mento
1. Default Chapter

**Title**: A Place In The Sun  
**Author**: Evelia  
**Email**: kaptainsnot@hotmail.com  
**Rating**: PG13 (rating may go up in future chapters)  
**Summary**: Perhaps our heart's desires are meant to remain merely that; a dream. What happens when what we have always longed for is finally laid out before us, and will one recognize the difference, between the true and the illusive? Harry gains an unexpected mentor, and learns the craft of growing up.  
**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author's Note**: I cannot claim to be a religious person, but rather am interested in religion itself. Many Biblical writings are as bizarre as Greek myths, some tales told by the Jews or Christians I find are as fantastical as any children's story I might've heard. So one day, from the help of my eldest sister, we developed a plot that would mix both religion (of more than one kind), with legendary wizardry. While the first chapter shows only the bluntest of normality, I assure you, this story will develop in ways I myself know little of. 

I hope you like what I have to give, dear Readers. I'll try my best and trust it's enough. 

**Chapter One**

_He was slowly enveloped in a thick wave of consternation, falling into a black abyss of forgotten secrets and the truth behind lies._

_Sorrow seeped through every corner, and screams of pain reigned through all._

_This is the place from which nightmares are made of, he thought. Of all things Dark and Evil._

_"You are wrong," a voice said. "This is the place from which Hope is created, and laughs become tears, and tears become Joy."_

"I_ told_ you Hermione. You have nothing to worry about. I'm perfectly fine." Harry's voice was now tainted dour with annoyance, and Hermione couldn't help but become even more alarmed. He was reading a book on legends of the Middle East, or trying to, anyway. More or less, he was glaring menacingly at the stiff, yellowed pages, and for a moment the young Prefect was sure he'd burn two holes straight through the cover.

She was simply worried, and with reason. Since the first day back at Hogwarts, Harry had behaved in a manner that implied the fact that he was troubled. To make matters worse, he was becoming rather sickly, and ate very little. That is, when he ate anything at all. In spite of all this, he seemed intent on not talking about it, giving flimsy excuses before suddenly grinning and talking Quidditch. In other words, Hermione was very upset, and was slowly coming to the conclusion that all of her efforts where entirely hopeless. Harry would speak only when he felt ready, and that was obviously not now.

This really was a side of Harry she wasn't used to seeing, and so wisely decided she'd let it go and end her questions. She was undoubtedly disturbed, however, and knew Ron had noticed as well. "Okay, Harry. Just---if anything's wrong, you know you can tell Ron and me anytime, right? That'sthat's what friends are for."

Harry closed the book quietly, and looked up into Hermione's dark brown eyes, which at the moment, swam with feelings of hurt and concern. "Hermof course I know. It's just--" how could he explain to them what they could never understand? That he was destined to carry out the weight of his past mistakes and clouded future, utterly alone? He couldn't. So he denied it instead. "--there isn't anything to discuss right now. Not really. But I will tell you if anythingcomes up, okay?" Those words. "I promise".

Hermione continued to look at him with that expression of uncertainty, before finally giving in. She smiled. "Alright Harry. WellI've got to go to bed now. You won't stay up too long, will you?"

He had opened the book again, and now briefly glanced up from the elegant letters, an amused smile gracing his lips. "No. I'm almost done, I think." A moment's silence. "Goodnight Hermione."

"G'nite Harry." _He's lying. But what else could I do?_

_I have no choice but to trust him._

______________________

  
_Damn. I'm late._

His footsteps echoed loudly down the dungeon corridors, as he desperately tried to get to Potions on time. Harry knew he was much too late, but he wasn't about to get more points taken from Gryffindor House than he really needed to. 

When he finally reached the classroom, Snape was writing something on the board, his back to the students. Harry quietly slipped in between Ron and Hermione and took out his materials in haste. Maybe Snape had yet to noti-

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mister Potter." He slowly set down the small piece of chalk before turning to face him and the rest of the class. "What, pray tell, was so important, that it kept you from getting here on time?"

"Nothing, Professor. I simply lost track of the hour." Gods, he knew how pathetic that sounded. Unfortunately, he just couldn't for the life of him think of something better.

Snape continued to glare at him. To Harry's secret amazement, his scowl was even more obvious and hateful than before. "I see", he said softly. "You will come to me at the end of class. In the meantime, I suggest you catch up with the rest of your classmates, unless you wish to find yourself further behind than you already are."

Harry, flushed and angry, began to copy everything off the board. _Bat's blood, crushed beetlestongue of dog, pulverized_His hand worked madly, its grip tight yet careless, unknowingly earning a look of complete disapproval from Hermione's side. She, however, did not comment.

______________________

  
Potions passed by quickly, and all too soon Harry found himself walking up to the Professor's desk. Figuring Snape was mad enough as it was, he merely stood there silently, not daring to say a word.

The man in question finally put down his quill, looking up wearily into Harry's face. "Five years, Potter. And you have yet to learn a thing."

His student didn't have anything to say, or rather, didn't have the nerve to say it. Instead, he resigned himself to staring into the other's eyes, and trying hard not to shuffle his feet on the floor below.

Snape, however, was deep in thought. He had noticed Potter's change in behavior as well, and was beginning to grow quite suspicious. That is to say, more than usual. The boy seemed moredistant? Even his two sidekicks, Granger and Weasley, were acting differently towards him. They still sat together, of course, but something lay between them. A question of trust, perhaps? Whatever it was, even Dumbledore had taken notice.

_Not that it was difficult_, he mused. _The boy hadn't a subtle bone in his body, and couldn't lie to save his life._

"You have a choice, Mister Potter. Either you have detention to serve for me tonight, or you tell me the truth concerning your whereabouts earlier this morning." Harry thought he saw something flicker in those black depths, but it could have been the light.

As for the question, he wasn't so sure. Detention with Snape was royal hell, and he didn't fancy the thought of spending his Friday night cleaning toxic jars, thank you. Then again, he couldn't possibly tell his Professor he had daydreamed for half an hour, falling asleep in a deserted hallway after more than a month of wakeful nights. Or could he? It was worth a shot, he decided. Anything, if it meant getting out of detention.

"II fell asleep, Sir." That _wasn't_ what he had planned to say at all. Oh well.

Snape's eyebrows were raised high in disbelief. Surely the boy didn't think him that stupid. "Fell asleep?" he smirked. "Surely, Potter, even you can do better than that."

_Great. He doesn't believe me._ "I hadn't slept in days, Sir." His mind was running wild, and his tongue was out of line. At least, as far as he was concerned. All he needed now was to be laughed at and sent to Madame Pomfrey. He definitely didn't want to be there, of all places.

Snape, however, seemed intrigued. "Oh really? And why is that?" The Potions Master was surprised he had gotten this far in his little interrogation, and was determined to go on.

Harry broke into a cold sweat. This did not go unnoticed under the Professor's piercing gaze, but he decided to push him anyway. "I asked you a question, Mister Potter." He built a steeple with his long, thin hands. "And I expect an answer."

Every person has a weapon, a certain quality that can be of great use when known how to handle. It just so happened, that Professor Snape's was his voice. Velvety soft when needed to be, cold and demanding when he wanted something done. He could manipulate the sinful, persuade the headstrong, crush hopes and corrupt the young with a single word. Surely it had other purposes, but that they were less sinister is somewhat unlikely. Yes, his voice was indeed his weapon, and he wield it well.

In the end, it was this ability that finally earned him an answer.

"Nightmares, Sir." It was merely a faint murmur, but Snape caught it anyway. Harry, on the other hand, mentally slapped himself silly. He had yet to tell his two best friends this burden, his secret, and here he was, telling Professor Snape. _Guilt, swallow me whole._

The Potions Master's eyes narrowed, first glancing at the dark shadows lingering under Harry's eyes, and then taking in his overall distraught appearance. After a few moments of internal conflict, he stood. "Come." With that he turned and walked over to the class storage. Harry followed him into the small chamber, and shivered as the air around him dropped some few degrees more.

Snape took out a small bottle, fingers entwined in an elegant yet leisurely manner. "Do you know what this is, Potter?"

Harry glanced briefly at it before answering. "Era Dreamless Sleep Potion."

Snape merely nodded, before reaching out his hand in order to give it to the boy.

Harry stared, transfixed. _Had Snape gone insane?_ After a moment's hesitation, he too reached out and got it. The man then turned and walked over to his desk. Sitting down, he finally looked up to find that Harry had yet to move. "Well? What are you waiting for?" 

Harry scurried out the room and over to the door. Fingers on the knob, he hesitated. Should he? Harry turned. "Thank you, Professor." Before he could get a response out of the startled man, he slipped through the doorway and closed it quietly behind him.

Snape looked down at his hands, wondering what on earth had possessed him. "You're welcome", he whispered.

______________________

  
"Seamus, you bloody cheat. That's not a valid rule!" Obviously, it was not the first time Ron said this.

" 'Course it is." Seamus bit the head off his chocolate frog. "Ain't that right, Harry?"

The boy being discussed looked up from his Transfiguration textbook, and seemed startled at the call of his name. "What?" He glanced at Seamus, who was looking at him apprehensively. "Sorry Seamus. I wasn't listening"

The truth was, Harry wasn't reading at all. Every time he tried to, thoughts of Professor Snape's odd show of---caring? He laughed inwardly. No, he must be wrong. Snape wasn't capable of such a thing. Slimy, heartless monster, right? Even in his mind that statement sounded silly.

Maybe it's poison, he thought suddenly. NoEven Snape's not that bad.

_unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand_ slips-- 

Memories of Snape's threat last year resurfaced in his mind, and he couldn't help but cringe.

--_three drops could have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear--_

He suddenly felt the urge to hide. An urge so strong, so overwhelming, he found himself somewhat lightheaded and weak. Missing Seamus' repetition of his former question, he gave a quick excuse before sprinting to the dormitories, heading for the boy's stairs.

Making sure to close the curtains, he jumped in bed and pulled the covers up to his neck. He was suddenly freezing. Tiredbut sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.

--t_hree drops could have you spilling your-_

_/--**Blood of the enemyforcibly taken**--/_

_--innermost secrets-_

_/--**you willresurrect your foe**/_

A sharp pain penetrated his scar, before leaving abruptly. Harry was left gasping for breath, his body still shaking with cold, and a fear he could neither explain nor comprehend.

/**_Kill the Spare_**/

It was with trembling hands that he finally took the small bottle from his robes. Holding in his breath, he easily removed the cork and drank deeply.

That night, Harry slept without a nightmare, and only saw darkness in his rest.

______________________

  
The Headmaster's office always gave off a certain warmth that Snape found rather comforting, which was odd considering he preferred the dungeons for the very opposite reason. Nevertheless, he felt at home here. Something he found incredibly amusing, but would break someone's neck over if ever they said it aloud. 

At that moment, Dumbledore walked in. He wore robes that, in Snape's opinion, could fit no one but the Headmaster himself. His pace was calm and steady, and his stature intimidating for a person of such age. Dumbledore had outlived so many, and outdid them all as well. Not only that, but he had the amazing ability to always get what he wanted.

"Hello Severus," his voice cheery. "I trust your first week was not too terrible." He sits down behind the large desk, and motions his hand for Snape to sit as well. "Tea?"

The Potions Master shook his head slowly before walking smoothly to a chair before the older man. He sat. "No thank you, Albus." Raising two pale hands to his head, he silently commenced to rub his aching temples. "Define 'not too terrible' ".

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, Mister Longbottom has landed in the infirmary a mere three times. If that says anything at all, it is that he is improving." He paused, looking thoughtfully at the brooding professor in front of him. "When were you last called, Severus?" 

"That's what I came to tell you." His voice was more tired than anything. "I am beginning to worrytwo weeks have passed without so much as a word of news."

For the whole of a minute they each were lost in their own thoughts. At last, it was Dumbledore who broke the silence. "Do you suppose he suspects?" His voice was not as grave as one would have thought appropriate for such a question. However, Dumbledore was an awkward man, and Snape had long stopped being surprised by his many quirks. In fact, he rarely even noticed them.

Snape was staring out the window, the sky a burning red. He seemed to be deciding what way was best to answer. He sat there for a long time, and no sooner had the sun, a gigantic orange orb, disappeared behind the Forbidden Forest, that he spoke. "I don't think so. After my first night, I was back in the circle. The Dark Lord's servant once more." His gaze was deadly cold, and for a moment, his eyes seemed infinite. Pits of darkness with no end. "It is amazing, Albus. When he accepted me, when I kissed the hem of his robesit was as if nothing had ever changed." A sigh escaped his tinted lips. "I was in the fold again. He treated me as if I had never left at all."

Dumbledore's voice became unusually quiet. "Do not become such a great performer, Severus, that you forget it is merely a play." He gave a would-be reassuring smile. "Please keep that in mind. Do not overrule the fact that inside, you are indeed innocent."

Snape let out a harsh bark of laughter, bitter in all its glory.

Dumbledore was a strong person, of strong will, and of strong principles. His courage was amazing, and he never seemed to lose hope. However, deep down, Snape's reaction scared him. He was frightened, for this man before him, a man just as strong as he, looked nothing but defeated. 

"Albus. That is one thing I am not." He stood and walked over to the door. "_Innocence_." His lips curled in distaste as the word left his mouth. "I ended with what little of it I had, for the rest was already stolen. I might be on the right side, but to say that cleanses me of my sins and wipes my conscience empty is another thing entirely."

Dumbledore stood. "Severus--"  
  
Snape held up his hand. "Nevermind. It has been an exhausting week. Thank you for having me, Albus." He opened the door, and without waiting for a reaction from the other man, left the office.

The journey to his quarters was both fast and instinctive. It wasn't until he finally found himself sitting before a dying fire, that he noticed the folded parchment that lay on his desk.

Once opened, he immediately knew whom it was from. _Potter's handwriting._ His frown deepened, and his scowl was, as always, the prominent feature of his face.

_Professor Snape,_

_I slept all of last night, and for that I have you to thank. Please except my gratitude. You have no idea just how tired I really was._

_H.P._

He settled himself into the chair once more, not taking notice of the thin smile that had formed on his lips. Shadows played on his sallow complexion, and after a moment, he closed his eyes.

Well, he thought, _that_ was unexpected.

______________________

  
When Harry woke up, the world was a pallet of blues and grays, dim and frosty even in the common room. It was not a good day to spend outside, unless one was a lover of bad times and enjoyed the act of savoring a foul mood. The world was coming to know these days quite well, and Harry didn't like it at all. A dark cloud was descending on them all, feeding on the remnants of what some call hope, and destroying any chances of ignoring the evil that stirred within the air itself, growing with every passing moment. It was, he thought, becoming harder and harder to see a way out.

Today, however, would be different. Snape's potion had worked, and he suddenly felt extremely foolish for ever doubting that it would. It had done wonders. Sure, Harry knew he had needed sleep, and of course, he hadn't been feeling very wellbut this was beyond sleep. This was healing.

He felt the night leave him as he stepped under the shower, warm needles of pressure running over his bare skin. For more than a month he had fought sleep with all that he had, pushing this human need into the far corners of his mind. He knew that wasn't good, but he also knew his dreams were worse. Not only did he see Voldemort, in his greatest moments of hate and greed, but he also saw his victims, and what they went through before merciful death took them from their pain.

He saw the streams of blood running through homes as dead as could be, and muggleborn children crying in confusion. _They have no part in this!_ he remembered screaming. He had woken up with his throat gone raw, and been locked up in the cupboard for waking the Dursleys. That had been the last night he really slept, determined to forget the blank eyes that gazed at him by the dozens. Eyes so much like Cedric's he thought he would vomit.

Ron had once shaken him during one of these fits, as he lay between restless sleep and stubborn wakefulness. He had seen the lines of worry etched on his friend's face, and lied about what he saw. What would Ron think, if he had told him that Death Eaters not only killed, but raped as well? And that they did it to both the grown and the young, not caring for all the world how much they hurt them, as long as it served as a show of their power? No, he would not end with Ron's childlike naivety, or shatter his beliefs of what he thought was happening beyond the safe castle walls. Harry had seen things no other fifteen year-old should have been allowed to see, and constantly experienced a burden of guilt no child should have to carry. So many things haunted him, and all he could do is keep them hidden from all others. Especially those he loved.

Most people grow up knowing what love is. Knowing what a bedtime story sounds like, or how it feels to be hugged. Most adults could remember their childhood with fond smiles, and most had parents that saw them with proud and shining eyes. Love being the center of what they had grown to know, it had kept them safe from all other things that could harm them.

Harry hadn't really known these things as a child, and when he actually saw such acts of kindness, they were met with utter perplexity.

Once, when he was five, Dudley had fallen from his bicycle, and Aunt Petunia had come running out of the house to help him. Harry had stood unnoticed on the sidewalk, and had watched as chubby cheeks were showered with kisses, and his cousin was hugged again and again for what seemed an eternity. Harry had been confused, and instead of being disgusted at this spoiled behavior, he had felt what he would later recognize as jealousy.

This show of affection had left him scarred, even if he himself did not know it. After much time had passed, this jealousy slowly turned into hate, hate for something he had never really understood.

During his infancy, he had been afraid of the dark. It was something quite normal, for when he finally left it behind him, Dudley had not. However, that was merely because Dudley was not forced to live in a closet, becoming almost part of the dark, as Harry once had.

In the cupboard, he had experienced fear that only a few could comprehend. How could he forget the countless times he had spent the night crying, his voice a shrill noise that merely scared him all the more? The cupboard had not only been his room for ten long years. It had been a chamber made for torture. Torture, for a two year-old to sleep in a hole-of-a-room filled with cobwebs and forgotten trash, to be among the spiders and the worn out bedspreads, when his cousin was bought new ones twice a month.

Harry barely remembered any of this, and yet in a wayall these things remained on his mind, always. It was his life, his past, as terrible as it was, and it was therefore part of his being. Those times were now over, buthe suspected that worse would soon come. He wasn't ready for it, but had that ever stopped Voldemort before? 

For now, at least, he had something else on his mind. How could he thank Snape, without actually seeking him out? The idea of telling the man how much it meant to him was utterly ridiculous, and the whole of Slytherin House finding out wasn't to his liking either. Thus, Harry came to the conclusion that writing him a note was indeed the best choice.

The majority of that day was spent almost like the years before. Hermione reading on the carpet, with Crookshanks curled up on her legs; Ron and Harry sitting right next to her, eating candy and finishing their essays. Nothing of great importance had been said, and Harry was grateful for it. He merely wanted to drink in his friend's presence, as if to last him for the years to come. Their happiness was noticeable, like an aura of light shining through their skins, making their faces glow in the firelight. Harry didn't realize exactly why they were happy, didn't really know that they laughed because of him, because he seemed so much better, so much more like the old Harry, the one they loved and preferred. But he didn't care.

It was that afternoon that he slipped into the Potions classroom, quickly placing the note on the Professor's desk. Perhaps he wouldn't get yelled at, and perhaps the man would keep his mouth shut. For now, however, all that mattered was that his head no longer hurt, and the voices had nearly all gone away. 

  


  



	2. Chapter Two

**Title: **A Place In The Sun  
**Author:** Evelia  
**Email: **kaptainsnot@hotmail.com  
**Rating: **PG13 (rating may go up in future chapters)  
**Summary: **Perhaps our heart's desires are meant to remain merely that; a dream. What happens when what we have always longed for is finally laid out before us, and will one recognize the difference, between the true and the illusive? Harry gains an unexpected mentor, and learns the craft of growing up.  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author's Note:** You know what's coming now, don't you? Get ready...

_Forgive me! _I loved all your reviews so much, and I did want to continue this, but so many things got in the way...I can't really describe everything that's happened, but let's just say fanfiction, this fanfic in particular, wasn't readily on mind. I'm sorry for the long wait, this fic has probably gone forgotten by my other reviewers, but I promise, next chapters are coming in _much_ sooner. In the long wait I've had time to flesh things out, and am now comfortable in continuing. I'll try harder to supply more updates, I promise.

And as a last little comment, if anyone's interested in beta-reading, please drop me a note, will you? These chapters aren't edited by anyone other than myself, since my beta had to leave my work due to school, and I would greatly appreciate any outside help. Thanks.

**Chapter Two**

_Harry- _

_Remus and I will be heading to Hogwarts, and so I hope to see you soon, a week at most. It will be a relief to see you again, as I can't help but think I should be with you, by your side, instead of out here looking for possible-allies. Don't worry about me, Dumbledore has already made accommodations. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, Harry. Believe me when I say friendship is the best thing you could have in times like these._

_Take care of yourself, I'll see you soon. _

_Sirius_

Harry was smiling fondly, fingers gripping the letter in his hands as if handling a precious stone. _He's coming to Hogwarts. A week at the most!_

"Harry?" a voice called out. "You in there?"

"Yeah," Harry said happily, unable to contain himself. _You shouldn't have to anyway,_ some corner in his psyche echoed. He ignored it, as was his custom of course. "Come in."

A long, freckly hand pulled at the curtain, a fiery-red head popping inside seconds later. Ron smiled at him, shoving away a pillow in order to sit on the large, four-poster bed. He'd been down helping the twins with their latest experiment, as Harry had refused to help due to Hedwig's unexpected arrival. He had written to Sirius a few times during the summer, and had had quite a time trying to keep the Dursley's from skinning his snowy white owl alive every time she came in waving his replies. It always was worth it though, as his godfather's words seemed to give him the extra push he needed in facing down whatever came next, even if they were just ink on a piece of parchment and not the man himself.

"What's he got to say?" Ron asked, lying down on his back as Harry ran his finger through the thin, silky bristles of his quill. The other simply stopped and handed him the letter, parting his lips to quietly say, "Oh, you know. The usual."

Ron scanned the letter quickly, not wanting to pour over the contents too much. He always felt odd in case the letter was personal, seeing as it wasn't his to read anyway. Once he got to the end, however, friendly etiquette was the furthest thing from his mind. Well, except for what kind of underwear You-Know-Who has underneath his robes, but then, one couldn't really blame him for that. "Bloody hell! This is great news, Harry!" He playfully socked Harry on his shoulder, giving him a lop-sided grin. "What do you suppose those so called 'accommodations' are?"

Harry shrugged. "Who knows? Some secret room here at Hogwarts or somethingI mean, _anywhere_ at Hogwarts will be close enough." The boy never really openly complained about the absence of his godfather, just as he never complained that his parents were dead. It seemed selfish, although sometimes, when he would wake up from a bad dream and muffle terrified words into his pillow, resentment did indeed cross through his mind. He would feel guilty then, as he closed his eyes tight, praying on anything and everything that the dream would not return. Guilty because he knew he was not the only one with troubles and burdens, and that it wasn't by mere want that Sirius was away.

Ron looked over at him for a moment, a contemplative look on his face. "A week at the most," he said, brown eyes glittering in the dim light.

Harry smiled.

"Yeah, a week at the most."

_________________

"Ugh. Can you _believe_ that old wench! First week of school and she already gives us an essay-"

Harry winced. "Three feet on the affects of cross-species transfiguration. You'd think she'd give us a break, seeing as even the text book didn't spare the subject a half page."

They had just finished their last class of the day, and McGonagall had been just as merciless as ever. The fifth year class was certain they now knew how the Head of Gryffindor dealt with stress.

Why, by assigning extra homework, of course.

Ron mumbled his agreement, stuffing his hands deep within his trouser pockets. "I'm telling you Harry. This year's not looking so good, with or without You-Know-Who's return." His voice went quiet as he said those last words, the boy's face the very essence of dread. Anyone else might have thought its cause to be Professor McGonagall's lengthy assignment, but Harry knew better and saw the comment for what it was. He said nothing and merely continued on their walk to the Great Hall, eyes on the cobblestones before them. After all, he couldn't really add anything to that, not without going into things he'd rather not have to think about. Somehow, talking about the inevitable made things so much more real, and this was the last thing Harry wanted.

"Hey, Harry! Ron!" They were both startled out of their silent tread by Hermione's familiar call, whom was running down the stairs to catch up to them. She stopped where they stood waiting and adjusted her bag onto her right shoulder, giving both the boys a somewhat flustered grin. "Lunch?"

Harry nodded. "How was Muggle Studies?" he asked politely, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.

Her face immediately brightened, eyes shining brightly as her mouth opened in glee. "Oh, I'm so glad you asked! Professor Donatello gave us a free-subject essay to write, as long as it related to Muggle culture and science, of course. And I've chosen the _perfect_ thesis for my composition, too! I'm so-"

"Excited? Yeah, I gathered as much." Ron's voice managed to sound irritated, disbelieving and amused all at once. "You're frightening, Herm. Simply _frightening_. In fact-" He grabbed Harry by the shoulders, playfully leading him away a yard or so. "-I think Harry and me should get away right now, least we catch your enthusiasm for worthless homework."

She glared daggers at them both and raised her head high, a gesture that meant she was all but affronted at her friend's silly antics. "I'll have you know, Ronald Weasley, that if anything at all is worthless here, it's your reluctance to accept responsibility." She visibly forced herself to put it aside, although her face still wore a very haughty expression. "Now," she puffed, "are we going to lunch or not?"

Harry smiled fondly, completely at home with Hermione's bickering, Ron's hate of schoolwork, and his own temporary state of indifference. They walked amiably to the Great Hall, quiet at first, then discussing the next Hogsmead weekend. After eating a quick meal, they headed down to the Quidditch pitch and Hermione worked on her "highly involved essay", while the two Gryffindor boys played one-on-one.

Harry let Ron use his Firebolt, while he himself used one of the school's ancient Shooting Stars. They spent an hour racing from one point on the field to another, Harry happy to forget everything with the wind, Ron annoyed and shouting his suspicions that Harry was letting him win. It was only when Hermione threw her book at Ron as he made an (admittedly) daring dive that they decided they'd better turn in. The sky by then was nearing a dark indigo, stars now peaking from above the lavender-tainted clouds. The cool, twilight breeze only made their trip back up Hogwart's steps more enjoyable, that and the small matter that nothing needed to be said between them for the moment. They were happy to simply be.

It had been, Harry later thought, a pretty good day. With or without evil Transfiguration professors.   
  
_________

_Headaches,_ Snape thought, as he downed yet another shot of whiskey, _are bloody cumbersome._

Sometimes, when he sat in his office after a very long day, he couldn't believe he had yet to fall over and die. Just die. When his mind would give up, and his body would break, and he would simply fall on his front, never to wake up again. It seemed a curse, at times, that this was not given to him, and yet his pride was too big to do it himself.

Not to mention it'd be quite an ungrateful slap in Dumbledore's face, but this was beside the point. 

His head was pounding. Snape had lost count of how many 'F's he had drawn in the past two hours, and while this would usually give him more amusement then distress, that was not so at the moment. The future looked very grim indeed, if sixth year students could not brew a simple healing draught without making it lethal. In fact, the idea that said students were their future Aurors and Ministry Officials made Severus, whom feared a hangover already, fill his glass yet again. Thank Merlin for the Sobrius Serum, he thought, and raised the glass to his lips for the ninth time that night.

Dumbledore had pressured all of the staff into cramming their students' heads with as much as they could this year, and Snape could have sworn the old man had shot him a quick but meaningful look as he said this. It was no secret that the Potions Master spent half the class terrifying the young scholars, whether it was by sampling so-called poisons or merely by his very presence. In Snape's opinion, it really was all their fault. If they had half the brains they should, if they had _one third _the wits they were entitled to, those brats would know when to keep their filthy mouths shut. It was, after all, their impudence that made Snape want to wring their necks, therefore sparking a deliciously fun game nicknamed (by the fifth year Slytherins) _How Wet Can Neville Get?_ Not as clever as Snape would have liked from his own House, but it certainly wasn't without its truth.

Snape did not stop his reprimands and he did not cease to tongue-lash the idiots when they played pranks in his class. He did, however, give them more material to study.

The vermin, of course, were as ungrateful as ever.  
  
It was amidst these thoughts that he heard a knock at his door. Two knocks, light and immediate, one after the other. He knew whom they pertained to, and knew too well he should answer the call. But, by Merlin, why this late he couldn't even harbor a guess.

"Enter," he called, raising one eyebrow at the young man who walked in, a silent question deep inside the gesture.

"Professor," Draco Malfoy greeted, voice filled with a respect very few ever heard. "A letter for you was sent along with my usual mail, and thought I should deliver it as soon as it was received." He slipped one thin hand inside his pocket, pulling out an envelope with the Malfoy Crest.

"How considerate of you, Mister Malfoy." He reached out and grasped the thin parcel that now lay on his desk, making sure to keep his gaze firmly on the boy.

The Slytherin smirked, a pale shadow of his Father's cruel sneer. "You're quite welcome, Sir." He turned on his heel, and with one last nod, left through his chamber's door. Snape waited until the door snapped shut to open the seal, standing up and walking off into the next room.

In his youth, Severus Snape had been obsessed with letters. He enjoyed their ability to open one's mind to speak freely, at times unlike a person's tongue. Writing letters to himself, to his future self that is, had been something of a habit. A memoir of his thoughts to a boy who perhaps, being days older, had forgotten the petty ordeals all together. He would sometimes take out these letters and read them by the fire when he didn't know what else to do. They held so much truth to him, and yetthey didn't. The letters had truths within the emotions expressed by means of a sharp-edged quill, yet all together, these emotions were as foreign and confused to him now as they were when he wrote them.

Time had taught him to mistrust of words on paper, for pretensions without a face was a dangerous game indeed. Opening the one in his hands now, this idea was so clear in his mind he could have sworn on its smell.

_Severus,_

_Meet me at Fragmier's the night of the 16th, at eleven's hour. The Dark Lord needs something done, and risks can no longer be taken to ensure they are rightfully brought through. _

_Do not be late, and make sure your absence is not noticed._

_L.M._

This didn't come as much of a surprise; it was the fact that Draco was the one to bring it to him that put his nerves on end. Snape was not blind and knew as much as anyone else that Draco had been raised to take Lucius' place in the fold. However, he had always had hope the young man would find another way, a different path, and indeed, he still did. Despite this, that he was relaying messages between those thought to serve Voldemort, son of one of them or not, meant one of two things. Either Lucius had suddenly found his heir trustworthy, or it didn't matter whether or not said son read the message.

Snape was willing to bet it was the latter, meaning Draco was close, painfully close, to being initiated.

This, of course, brought some light upon Malfoy Sr.'s dry message. The time for recruiting had once again come, and this time, those who wished to bear the mark upon their arm had more in store for them than they would have dreamed possible.

_Oh, the joy of ignorance,_ Snape thought, as he downed his last shot.  
____________ 

_The_. It's a word used before singular and plural nouns, and phrases that denote particular persons or things. A word used to sometimes announce uniqueness as well as importance, or declare something prominent and/or outstanding.

It was also the only part of his essay Harry had written, and he had been sitting at his desk for the past half hour.

_Concentrate, Harry!_ His mind shouted, not for the first time. It was as if there stood a wall between his conscience and his ability to follow it, a sort of barrier, and one he was trying uselessly to break. 

"Enough of this," he muttered. Harry closed his book, rolled up his long-dried parchment and bottled his ink pot, hoping he'd still catch Ron and Hermione before they left dinner. He'd stayed back, fighting off their insisting remarks about his health. _This isn't about my health,_ he had said._ I'm too far behind._

In a way, this really was true. Harry had let his assignments fly by him like fall leaves, wasting his time thinking, or rather, trying with all his might not to think at all. This, however, was a school, and _in_ a school, thinking was usually part of the equation. Harry, on the other hand, felt he had more important things to do. Such as mope around and do nothing.

He threw his knapsack onto the bed, for a moment only _slightly_ cross at having missed.

Maybe Snape's right, he though suddenly. Maybe I _do_ think myself above the rules.

While the problems with his sleep had been diminished thanks to Snape's potion, he still couldn't help but feelfeel what? Weary? Sick? _Trapped?_ Yes, he constantly felt crushed, as if a heavy weight were pushing him down, as if the Hogwarts ceilings were quite suddenly excruciatingly low. He was trapped, but the worst thing was he didn't know by what.

He tried to tell himself he was being stupid. _Of course I don't feel alright, after all, War isn't supposed to be fun. Especially not when you're the not-so-secret weapon, and have been all your life._

However, deep down inside he knew it wasn't just the War. It wasn't just Voldemort, it was something else

Something much bigger.

He sprinted into the closest lit hallway, immensely perturbed at the lack of light. "You feel it too," he murmured to the castle walls "don't you?" He ran faster, going down the main corridor and not meeting anyone. When he finally saw Ron and Hermione, eating lunch with a group of friends, relief swelled through his chest like an opening fist.

If only he knew what he was running from. If only he could see his predator's eyes.

He was trapped, and didn't know by what.

_____________________________ 

  
There are five things Draco Malfoy hates over anything else in the world. This surprisingly short list did not, of course, include many specific people. In fact, he tried to keep them vague and general, seeing as number three was hypocrisy anyway.

Number one on his inventory was Gryffindors. They are the vilest of creatures, he often thought, and the most repulsive thing about them is how they fail to see themselves for what they are. They stick their heads into situations too big for them and have bravery so fierce and overpowering, they often act without thought or cause. To make matters worse, they had this sense of_nobility_, that smelled of pompousness so strong and so disgusting, Draco felt mad just thinking about it.

_They think they're so much better then us. Not only that, but they have the extraordinary ability to make others believe that they are as well._

Sometimes, when in his most sardonic of moments, he would step away from himself and contemplate the irony which was Gryffindor. This was the home of the brave, those with courage bright as fire within them, and yet in Draco's eyes, bravery in its purest form was nowhere to be found in his rival house. The most courageous trait was to be honest about one's self, which was the hardest thing to do. It was brave, to be able to look in the mirror, and know the flaws that run inside that soul of yours, or admit to doing wrong. _However, you really don't see that much, do you?_ He thought. Not even in the house of the brave. 

Number two was, unsurprisingly, Dumbledore.

_Don't they see it?_ He would sometimes think. _The way he pulls his strings and puppeteers them alllike some grand master play. They're all his toys!_

In Draco's opinion, Dumbledore was just as guilty as the Dark Lord. The only difference being that Voldemort believed in a worthy cause, one which his _followers_ believed in and trusted. However, _Dumbledore_ did not have his motives laid before him, and his followers simply thought themselves correct and virtuous within their own freedom and independence, not realizing every person, big and weak, played a part in the Headmaster's plan.

Blind. All lead by one insufferable coot, who couldn't even get one good Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, when there was a more than qualified man right underneath his old, crooked nose.

Then again, Draco thought, he'd be a more than qualified _anything_.

Three, as said earlier, was hypocrites. They absolutely made his blood _boil_. Take the staff, for example. Draco and the other mortals get in trouble for breaking silly, fickle rules, and Potter goes out there, risks his life and those of his friends, brakes a hundred rules and more, then ends up with an award, hundred points each and whatnot. That Dumbledore and his deluded, do-gooding group of professors were the biggest bunch of hypocrites Draco had ever seen, especially in relation to Slytherin House.

Which is why Snape treats Slytherins the way he does, he knew. Because if no one else took their side, ever, than at least one man would do so, always.

Fourth was his Father. Draco loved his Father, just as any child, deep down inside, loved theirs. However, sometimes it was hard for that love to be evident in him; it was difficult to see the good within. And this was, Draco thought, not surprising, seeing as he did not love his Father for who he was, but merely, for what his Father saw in him.

Malfoys reeked of power, wealth and confidence. Every Malfoy Heir was expected to be the best, and every Malfoy Father had to ensure that said Heir would be the best. Although Draco too had confidence, sometimes it was only his Father's cold, hard stare that kept him going, much more than his Mother's gifts ever would. He needed to know his Father knew he would be a good Heir, and this was shown to him every time Lucius raised his walking-stick, or every time he left Draco with a problem on his own. He knows I can do it myself, Draco thought, and he's the only one.

However, sometimes Draco couldn't see the confidence behind his Father's actions, and could only see the cruelty in his Father's eyes or tone of voice. Later, he would think a situation over and over, running perfectly-memorized dialogue in his mind. He would then realize his Father had been right. His Father had been right in punishing him, however horrible it had seemed, and he would _always_ be right in doing so. He had almost willingly deserved it.

And this, in the end, was what he hated. Not his Father, but the fact that Lucius was the only man that could make Draco feel guilt.

The last thing Draco disliked he would never admit to anyone, for it could mean the difference between taking his Father's place and being disowned. At least, in _his_ opinion. Draco hated to serve _another_ person's bidding, and wished to only serve his own.

He couldn't really tell whether or not this was important, and yet he always felt a rising urge to never let Father know. Sometimes he wondered if this was bad, seeing as he was expected to serve, actually _serve_, the Dark Lord. However, this brought him to yet another consistent wonder.

Why was his Father, who seemed to have all that he wanted, a Death Eater?

He was sure most people could give him loads of answers, but Draco was also sure they wouldn't answer a thing. While it was true that Muggles and Mudbloods did nothing but sully the Magical society, kissing another's feet was a whole different matter.

Draco hoped he might quell his nerves and doubts and shove them deep down inside for the ever coming initiation. He'd been waiting for this day for so long nowmemories of his Father's ballroom, of the guests in black and women who wore their hair in tight, elegant knots, their faces stark white as they smiled at something tasteful and snarky their husbands had said. He had sat there, between his Mother and a woman he hardly knew, watching as Lucius stole the others from their light, watched as he took absolute control and spoke with a distinctly cold charm, the way the winter night air can be both pleasing and deadly. Draco, scantly old enough to stand, had known what every person in that room, minus himself, was. 

And the slight boy, with his Father's pointed gaze and platinum, blonde hair, had also known that some day, he would be one too.

So why was he having these thoughts of precarious distrust, when he had been preparing himself for this since those midnight balls back when he was a mere toddler?

Because, deep down inside, Draco Malfoy wanted something better.  
__________ 

_Everything's white, everything has always been white. Will always be white._

_I am flying. I am floating. I am nothing._

_Where am I?_

_There's a flash of red. Blood, thick and dark, is covering everything, tainting the purity with its sin. The storm is coming, he knows. The storm has been coming for a very long time._

_And there, above him, is a man of white, and the storm of blood does not touch him. He is everything. I close my eyes._

________________

Harry let out a small moan, rising from the floor with one great shudder. _What the Hell? The floor?_ Next to where he had been sleeping were his shoes, and a small blanket had been tucked beneath and around him. Blinking, he realized his glasses had been taken off.

He heard footsteps.

Harry couldn't see a thing.

A ray of yellow light broke through the doorway, covering him with minimal warmth. He couldn't make out any details, but he now recognized where he was. The common room.

"Oh, Harry! You're awake!" this from a disheveled Hermione, who now placed something cold yet comforting on his nose. My glasses, Harry thought with a sigh.

"Why am I?"

"on the floor?" She smiled, lighting the room with a muttered charm. "You knocked out, don't you remember? Oh, that Georgeor Fred, I don't quite remember-"

"_What_ are you talking about?" he asked, voice irate and spiteful. Waking up on the hard floor of the Gryffindor common room was not his idea of a good morning, not to mention the nightmare that had awakened him. Didn't take the potion, he thought mournfully. "And what time is it?"

Hermione seemed only slightly put-off by his piqued response, and quickly checked her watch. "Eight-thirty. Everyone's come and gone, so you're lucky you didn't get trampled on. Not to mention that it's a Saturday." She took the blanket from him and folded it into a small, neat square, dropping it onto the nearest couch. "So, I take it you don't remember eating the twin's latest invention, Drop Dead Lollies." Her voice was deadpan.

Harry shook his head, frowning.

"Well, it's not exactly surprisingyou took quite a nasty fall. We all thought you'd been poisoned!" She shook off a shudder, suddenly glaring at the door to the boy's dormitory. "That is, until Ron and his brothers burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, all the while trying to pick you up."

Harry felt a blush rise in his cheeks, and imagined he had put on quite a show. "Did I go to the Infirmary? I mean, what happened?"

"WellFred and George assured us it was only temporary, a _tiny_ dash of wormwood and nothing more, so we thought we'd simply let you sleep it off. You'd seemed kind of tired anyway, and not wanting to wake you up, we gave you a blanket and left you to stay the night here." She gave him a reluctant grin. "As for if anything else happenedwell, if you mean you waking up delirious and giving away precious and embarrassing secrets, no. You didn't even snore"

Harry had gotten on his feet and was now running his hands through his tangled, dreadfully wild hair. Only half his mind was listening to her, conscious to the fact that she had not stopped talking. However, he barely noticed, his mind filled with images of a man made of white light, and rain of blood falling around him.

_Where am I?_

_I am flying. I am floating._

_I am nothing._

He opened his eyes, only then realizing he'd had them closed.

"Harry? Are you alright?" He looked over at her, a feeling of hopelessness overcoming his senses.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine." It was then that Harry wondered why he felt like he was lying, when he couldn't have said what was wrong either way.

tbc.

Replies to all my lovely reviewers:

**WittchWay**: I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for reviewing! **Captain-Emily:** Killed it by not updating 'till now, but I thank you for your praise anyway, it made this young author smile. **FawkesnFlame and Moony:**-laughs-, I'm pleased my fanfic could bring out such a response, thank you!** Hannah: **You, darling, made me blush. What is this rubbish about me writing instead of Rowling? -smiles- Thank you for your praise, being on someone's favorite author's list is simply surreal. **Jinxy: **I'm still not quite sure if it shall be HP/SS. That's my favorite ship of all time, and I would be only too pleased to make it take that route. However, it wasn't what I had originally planned, so I shall have to think about it. Thank you for reviewing, and for the rec. **T.a.g2: **A bit late, aren't it? -grins- I'm really glad you reviewed my work, and that you were able to enjoy it. I hope you're still around for the rest! **Makota: **I simply adore you for reviewing. I was aiming for what your praised me for, and therefore seeing your comment made it all worth it. Thank you. **Dramaqueen: **Heh, I'm glad you like the summary. I agree that they have similarities, although I certainly hope they aren't _too _alike. **Kiri: **Voices of all types, yes. You shall be seeing much more of that in the coming chapters. Thanks for the review! **Askadi: **I give you my heartfelt graditude, really, thanks. **Emily Snape: **I love being able to see images clearly while reading, so your review made me glad I'm able to bring that to my works as well. Thanks. **Kateri1: **Well, there's more for you, finally. Hope you enjoy! **Kimmy: **Thanks much, I'm sorry for the ridiculous wait. **Andromeda Night: **Wee, Siri, thank you! -grins- Took me long enough, I know. **Aniwda: ** Thanks a mil, I love writing Snape, and so more of his deliciously snarky mind is in this chapter. Thank you for reviewing! **Jess the Great: **-smiles- Well...I _did_ oblige, even if it has been more than _half a year_. Thank you for the review; I love that movie, btw. **Kissme: **Heh, well, thank you. And...do I know you from ezboards? I'm curious as to how you know me as crimson weeper. Either way, thanks. **Blotstop: **Hehe, I'm so glad you liked it, IST. While there wasn't be any HP-SS interaction in this chapter, there is more than enough of them both. Sorry it took so long, I'm really happy another Snapist liked it. 

Update coming **_very_** soon. Thanks for sticking around, and please, review!

-evelia


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